


Autumns That There Were

by perkynurples



Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Epilogue, M/M, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 00:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: Some stories are written down, and some are only told, and it takes a lifetime for a tree to grow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _I sit beside the fire and think_   
>  _of all that I have seen_   
>  _of meadow-flowers and butterflies_   
>  _in summers that have been;_
> 
>  
> 
> _Of yellow leaves and gossamer_  
>  _in **autumns that there were** ,_  
>  _with morning mist and silver sun_  
>  _and wind upon my hair._
> 
>  
> 
> _I sit beside the fire and think_  
>  _of how the world will be_  
>  _when winter comes without a spring_  
>  _that I shall ever see._
> 
>  
> 
> _For still there are so many things_  
>  _that I have never seen:_  
>  _in every wood in every spring_  
>  _there is a different green._
> 
>  
> 
> _I sit beside the fire and think_  
>  _of people long ago_  
>  _and people who will see a world_  
>  _that I shall never know._
> 
>  
> 
> _But all the while I sit and think_  
>  _of times there were before,_  
>  _I listen for returning feet_  
>  _and voices at the door._

He drives up alone, or as alone as they permit him, which means only _two_ security vehicles tailing his own - a luxury these days, to be sure, especially since he's convinced his numerous aides to forgo sending a single photographer or journalist with him. They all remember how _that_ ended the last time.

He instructs the chauffeur to take his time, as this is his first escape from his duties in quite a while, and he means to enjoy it - he surveys the changing landscape outside, as the car exits the cramped city streets and begins climbing higher, past pastures and fields of late-summer gold, over rolling green hills, and finally into the soothing darkness of the forest, where all signs of civilization recede, not even the elegant wings of the wind turbines high up in the mountains visible anymore.

Secretly, he is glad that no one has yet braved starting any sort of larger scale construction up here - many have considered it, but the costs of battling the resilient nature here for what little ground it might yield have been proving too high so far. Thus, the forest has been allowed to stay the same for decades, save perhaps for the repaired driveways that no longer threaten to send a lesser skilled driver tripping over a hole and into this or that ravine.

The road up to the house, that, too, greets him seemingly unchanged, the slope still at an almost impossible angle, gravel crunching under the wheels of the car a pleasantly familiar sound. The first person he happens upon is the gardener, tending to the rose bushes threatening to swallow the entire front wall of the mansion now. As refreshingly ignorant of protocol as ever, the man greets him with a lazy tip of his straw hat, not even bothering to put down his electric scissors.

"Afternoon, Your Majesty. It's good of you to come visit us. His Lordship will be thrilled to see you."

That is immediately followed by an unmistakable voice shouting some no doubt scathing insult from inside, and the King quirks his eyebrow, a single motion of his hand calming his ever-alert bodyguards, already prepared to follow the commotion - the gardener merely sighs.

"Like I said. Good luck."

With a knowing smile, the King and his entourage head inside, only to encounter the caretaker in the foyer, her arms full, and a truly harried expression on her face, which doesn't diminish in the least when she notices them.

"Your Majesty," she huffs, "thank god you're here. Maybe you could convince him he should be sitting down, instead of skipping around the kitchen."

"I'll do my best," he chuckles, "why don't you take a break, Matilda."

"I was going to escape to do the laundry, anyway," she shrugs, always endearing in her honesty, "I'll tell the girls to make you some tea, shall I?"

"That would be wonderful, thank you."

With that, all that's left to do is follow the distant muttering - he does take a moment to linger in the hall, looking up the staircase to the large window, the glow of the afternoon sun enveloping the entirety of the foyer in a golden haze, to remain so for a precious few more moments, until dusk comes. Decades have passed here, etched into the wood, settled along the dust into the carpet running down the length of the stairs, and yet the sight never fails to fill him with happiness, and a sense of security.

"There is no need to treat me like a complete cripple! I can still walk, you see!"

"Oh, my," the King chuckles to himself, and hurries after the voice, inevitably ending up in the kitchen, only to happen upon the conclusion of some sort of an etude between the young cooks and their His Grumpy Lordship, who has apparently decided it's his turn to occupy the space.

"Afternoon, Bilbo!" the King announces himself, appropriately loudly, "you've decided to bake, have you?"

One nod towards the staff is enough to send them retreating in relief, and the King himself is subject to the unyielding glare of a man whose home has been invaded out of nowhere, until, of course, he is recognized.

"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise! Now that you're here, maybe you can order these people to get out of my way."

"Maybe. Although I was rather hoping to simply sit with you for a while," Fili smiles, evading effortlessly as the old man hobbles across the expanse of the kitchen, electric kettle in his shaking hand, singularly determined to finish his task, while the maids observe from a safe distance.

"My dear boy, I spend entire _days_ sitting around. I sincerely hope you've come here with something a little more interesting in mind than _sitting down_."

"Perhaps," Fili laughs, "it's a lovely day. How about a walk in the garden? And tea afterward, if you don't mind."

Bilbo surveys him suspiciously, as if he's trying to determine if Fili only came here to rob him of his treasured calm, but then he seems to arrive at some sort of a decision, a realization perhaps, and relaxes, sighing heavily.

"Of course. Of course, it's been a while," he says, much more tamely, "let's take a walk. I could do with the fresh air-" one pointed glare toward his caretaker briefly appearing in their field of vision in the hallway outside, only to hurry away again, "or so I'm told."

"It will be good for the both of us," Fili agrees diplomatically, offering his arm to Bilbo, and, predictably, ending up being scoffed at, the man opting for his cane instead.

Summer is slowly giving way to autumn, but the warmth lingers, even now, very little sunlight left in the vast garden - the air smells of the forest, fresh and sharp, and Fili and Bilbo settle on the bench farthest away from the house, where neat flowerbeds change to greenhouses, to an apple orchard, nothing but the buzzing of bees keeping them company.

"How are you?" Fili begins broadly, "how's the leg treating you?"

"It's fine, fine," Bilbo waves his hand dismissively, "annoyed me last week, with the storm, you remember?"

Fili remembers it from the year before last, but he doesn't mention that.

"Yes. The offer still stands, if you-"

"If I _what_? Want to become half robot?" the old man scoffs, "no thank you! I'll keep my own limbs, if it's all the same to you."

"Of course," Fili grins, interlacing his fingers behind his head, leaning back, stretching his shoulders. Bilbo watches him like a hawk, clearly mulling over something, the words never quite forming, and Fili has long since learned to leave him to it.

"And how's the Palace treating you?"

"Oh, you know. Same old. Kind of exhausting, now."

"Thinking about retiring, are you?" Bilbo sniggers, as if the idea is particularly amusing.

"Dis would make a fine Queen," Fili shrugs.

"That she would. That she would, that daughter of yours. How is she? How are the kids?"

"Loud," Fili supplies earnestly, and Bilbo's face lights up in laughter. "Very bright. Dis is doing a wonderful job of raising them, I'm quite proud of her."

"Hmm," Bilbo nods, "tell them to come visit sometime. It gets quiet around here."

They listen to it, for a moment at least - the birds slowly deciding on their lullabies, the wind playing in the treetops, the garden, buzzing even now with a thousand lives - and Fili doesn't presume to know where Bilbo's mind wanders these days, but his own tends to travel further back the older he gets, reminiscing, recounting what once was.

At some point, he muses, surely the world changed at a less alarming pace, but he hardly remembers it. No, it seems to him that ever since he met Bilbo, decades, ages ago, his life has been a turbulent dash forth - and yet, whenever they find the time to simply sit together these days, all slows down, especially here. This place has been his family's retreat from the hectic life in the city for generations, and Fili is often humbled by it - Fili's own mother used to play in this garden as a child, accompanied by his grandfather, perhaps in almost the very same spot that Fili now often entertains _his own_ grandchildren... It's a sobering thought, as well as a reassuring one.

"The celebration is coming up," he braves swerving the conversation into the intended lane, "Dis thought it might be nice for you to visit."

" _The_ celebration?" Bilbo scowls, "which celebration?"

"You know," Fili reminds him gently, "the liberation. The end of the summer revolution."

"Oh, that," Bilbo waves his hand like he's swatting a fly, "do we really have to celebrate that every year? It gets annoying after a while, don't you think? I say let's celebrate it every ten years or something. Needless pomp."

"Well, that's the thing," Fili says somewhat warily, "it's one of the big ones. It's been fifty years now."

" _Fifty years?!_ " Bilbo exclaims, "that's ridiculous! Feels like it was yesterday!"

"I know, I feel the same way," Fili smiles fondly, "but you understand that the people want to celebrate. The kids would love to see you. Nothing too overexuberant, I promise. Just a nice sit down under the tree-"

"Under the _tree_ !" Bilbo is loud for a brief moment, almost angry, a cough stealing his next words away from him - he grows silent afterward, frail, veined hands closing around the handle of his cane, eyes unfocusing, lips forming words without actually saying them again. Fili shoots a look back to the house, where Bilbo's caretaker is hovering anxiously - he comforts her with a small gesture, _it's fine_.

"The tree," Bilbo repeats, quieter, "now that I might want to see again."

"I thought you might. It's a pretty impressive sight these days."

"Hmm, yes, yes," Bilbo muses, "fifty years. Feels like yesterday. I could have sworn it was yesterday..."

"Fifty years," Fili nods, "I can scarcely believe it myself. What do you say? Would you like to spend some time with the family, then? If you say no, I'm afraid Dis will take over the negotiations, and you know how she can get."

"Dear me, yes," Bilbo laughs somewhat dryly, then, completely out of nowhere, as it tends to happen these days, his mood reverts back to peeved at some unknowable annoyance, and he declares: "Well, I don't know how that will go over with Thorin. You know how he is these days, honestly, I tell him there's nothing to be done, that he must rest, but do you think he listens to me? No-o, it will be a cold day in hell before His Majesty does _anything_ he's told..."

Fili lets him trail off into unintelligible muttering, looking from him at his own hands, clasped tight now in his lap. One would figure it's been long enough now, but he supposes there's no forcing a mind as scattered as Bilbo's back into order.

"Yes, well, why don't you both think about it, then, at the very least," he offers gently, which seems to stop Bilbo in his tracks somewhat, and he's looking at something Fili can't see again, something that isn't even really there, save for a picture Bilbo's unreliable memory has decided to conjure up.

"Yes, we... might as well," he concedes, and Fili can see it in his face, clear enough to hurt him, the journey from blissful ignorance to recalling the less than pleasant reality, all in a fraction of a moment, nothing but a pained scowl.

"Come on, then," Bilbo stands up laboriously, "walk me back to the house, before I burn my muffins."

As there are, in fact, no muffins in the oven - something Bilbo merrily forgets before they even make it into the kitchen - they settle in the sitting room with their tea, and after some more idle chatter and a bout of bickering with his caretaker forcing his evening medication on him, Bilbo dozes off. The sight of him, barely larger than a child and entirely too quiet, prompts Fili to get up and cover him with the nearest blanket, all the way up to his chin, before he allows himself a weak moment, slumping back into his armchair, and watching.

He feels his own age slowly beginning to ache in his bones, but Bilbo's is written into the very lines of his face, like an account of everything he's been through, almost a hundred years of what might very well be the most extraordinary life Fili has ever had the pleasure of being a part of. His hair is completely white now, his shoulders weak, posture sunken, but his eyes, when awake, remain alert as ever, sharp, sharper perhaps than his memory, and all in all, there is a determination about him, always has been - he was always short, and the ordeals of old age have bent his spine even closer to the ground, but there he is, a stalwart of their family, despite everything.

Despite holding the fort, so to speak, alone now.

When it becomes obvious that there will be no rousing Bilbo any time soon, Fili wanders - the house breathes, a slow, even rhythm of wood settling, very few people in a very vast space, and the stairs creak under his step, which makes him smile. He recalls coming here shortly after the fire, what feels like centuries ago, on the brink of adulthood, can almost see himself looking up the stairs, anxious, worried that the next intake of breath will taste of smoke still - but then he took the very first step up, and it creaked, so familiar, so recognizable, and the relief was immediate and almost overwhelming. Everything was going to be alright.

The door to his Uncle's study is open, always open, and he almost raises his hand, almost knocks. Walking in is a bit of a challenge, but he does so nevertheless - Thorin's ancient, comfortable leather chair greets him empty, as does the vast desk, and Fili only stands at the door for a moment, breathing in, the scent always the same. Books, hundreds of books, lining the walls, and a faint reminder of dust, stale air - in a sudden desire to change that, Fili moves to open the large window.

He deliberates on the decision for quite a while, but he does end up sitting in the chair, hands feeling the texture of the desk somewhat aimlessly. There are a dozen framed pictures lining the edge of it, old and newer, some ancient, even, and Fili picks up the one that strikes him the most - years and years ago, his daughter so much younger and somewhat disheveled, sitting on the kitchen floor and eating ice cream directly from a tub, the defiant pout on her face already cracking at the edges with laughter.

No doubt, this was the time she decided to briefly throw the entirety of the Palace into hysterics by disappearing out of the blue, and ended up hiding away with Thorin and Bilbo right here, for over two weeks. He smiles fondly, strokes the photograph with his thumb - how careless, how rebellious Dis looks here, freedom the only thing on her mind. He snaps a quick photograph of it, to show her later, and sets it back.

“Fifty years,” he announces, “imagine that.”

 

Bilbo’s own private study is very close to Thorin’s; indeed, Fili remembers them conversing via open doors with their voices only slightly raised back in the day, but he’s a bit more reserved about wandering in there - it’s much messier than Thorin’s, bookshelves straining and overflowing, the books that don’t fit in lined in somewhat unsteady columns on the floor... The desk is almost invisible under the layers of paper, Bilbo’s laptop lying forgotten in the midst of it, probably rarely, if ever, used.

No, Bilbo has always preferred hands-on work, more fiercely the older he gets, really, using pen and paper for his notes even after all this time. Fili dares not touch anything, but one thing does spike his curiosity, as he lingers by the desk, fingers trailing over the landscape of straining document folders and pages covered with everything from scribbles to newspaper clippings, from small doodles to intricate notes he can’t hope to make sense of.

A thick volume with no title seems to have been granted the rare prize of lying unburdened by other stuff covering it, almost as if it’s something Bilbo is actively working on even now. Fili feels like he’s thirteen years old again, shooting a look back over his shoulder - no one but his bodyguards, with their backs turned to him, is waiting to scold him, and so he gently opens the book, only to find more of Bilbo’s handwriting, meticulous as always, even though age has turned even that somewhat shaky.

“A memoir, huh?” Fili chuckles, “you always were good at telling stories.”

The functional, kingly part of him is already worrying about preserving something as fleeting as written word, especially considering Bilbo’s profound hatred of anything digital in his old age, but then he shakes his head, dismissing his own thoughts - it’s going to be alright. After all, Bilbo’s is a story not so easily forgotten.

Ever so gently, he turns the first page, just the first page, he tells himself, just to see...

 

_In a tiny, cramped apartment in the less savory suburbs of London, there lived a miserable bachelor. That’s how the stories tend to begin, isn’t it?_

_The year was 2014, and I was perfectly convinced that I was going to spend the rest of my life exactly where I was. I had a comfortable, if unmemorable, teaching job, which paid for my very cramped apartment in the more boring part of Peckham, and my prospects included looking forward to weekends, complaining about the quality of cafeteria food with my colleagues, and perhaps spicing things up every now and then with the occasional minor property dispute with the rest of my family up north._

_I was fooling myself, even then, believing that I would be content to live like that. It was complacency, more than anything, with a side of bitter disillusionment, that colored my demeanor those days, but I had no way of convincing myself otherwise, reawakening my more adventurous side. No, for that to happen, I needed someone else to, very literally, come shake me out of my stupor._

_I remember it as if it were yesterday - seated at my desk in my office at school, after hours, I was nursing within me the vague hope that at least one or two of the young souls at the institution were different from the disinterested mass of the student body, that some of them might still come to ask me insightful questions about the upcoming essays and thus brighten my day..._

_The distraction came, but not in the form of a child eager for more education, no - the receptionist was requesting my presence at the front desk, as I apparently had a visitor waiting for me. This seemed odd to me, to say the least, as I wasn’t expecting anyone, but off I went, if only for the chance to revisit the_ good _coffeemaker in the teachers’ kitchen._

_My history with Gandalf Grey had already been far too intricate by the time he reappeared in my life out of the blue, and I do believe I will find the room to describe it in more detail later, but suffice to say, his visit came as a great surprise to me. I had not seen or heard from him in many years before that, but he acted perfectly blase about the entire thing, as if we had been planning that little impromptu tête-à-tête for ages._

_Imagine me, roused from my excruciatingly dull mid-week slouch, faced with this man, wearing a sleek coat, an elegant shawl, and a somewhat quirky hat, and all in all appearing as if he had just stepped off an airplane after the voyage of a lifetime (as I reveal more about Doctor Grey, I’m sure you will eventually agree with my hypothesis that that had indeed been the case)... It was odd to say the least, and that was_ before _the man offered me a job._

 _Little old me, packing up and shipping off to some unknown country, to become some sort of a nanny to a royal family! Unheard of. I laughed in Doctor Grey’s face then, and invited him to a polite dinner, where we discussed nothing of the mysterious job, and instead attempted to catch each other up on the events of our years apart. Needless to say, I didn’t sufficiently remind myself in that time of my old colleague’s cunning, as I found myself saying goodbye to him that evening, only to discover that he had conveniently forgotten a very informative binder on the job_ and _the country in question..._

_Even after all these years, I can’t quite say what compelled me to read it - curiosity played a role, certainly. Perhaps I knew, deep within, that it was exactly what I needed at the time, searching for something, anything, that might make me feel a little more alive. Adventure._

_If you have ever tried to pack all your belongings overnight, surely you can imagine the horrors I inflicted upon myself when I made the blind, reckless, wonderful decision to leave. I knew not what I was getting myself into, I knew not when I would be coming back, I didn’t even know how much I’d be paid. I knew nothing, except for the one small constant that kept me going, a lingering thought that simply would not let me go -_ this might be the chance of a lifetime, to turn things around _, my heart said,_ and it might be the only one.

_Which is how I found myself cussing out a sinfully early alarm on one very rainy Friday morning, and stuffing my overflowing luggage into the trunk of a taxi that would take me to the airport - I think it was Luton, although I fail to see the importance of confirming that too thoroughly - where I would leave my country, my boring but comfortable job, indeed everything I’d ever known, behind._

_I think it was there and then, having nervously strapped myself into my window seat, watching the world outside rush by as the plane rolled down the runway, that my story truly began. Yes, that’s as good a starting point as any, I suppose. Let’s see then - it goes like this..._

 

-

 

It goes like this: on the border between Italy and Liechtenstein, there lies a small country by the name of Erebor, a tiny speck in a vast mountain range, hidden in a ridge between its peaks, protected and secluded, but far from hostile - in fact, green fields spread on the sides of mountains, turning into meadows rich with herbs, which eventually disappear into thick forests, all of that surrounding the jewel that is the capital.

Above the river cutting the city in half like a brilliant ribbon, above the picturesque roofs of red, and narrow alleys as well as squares swimming in greenery, sits the Hurmulkezer, the Royal Palace of Erebor, a timeless sculpture of snow-white marble, the very heart of the country itself, and home to the royal family.

Now, you may know them from pictures and from books, and these days, seeing their faces on the news usually elicits _some_ reaction, but only a handful of people outside the actual country remember, or even really care, what it was like when they were _everywhere,_ when everyone knew what they looked like, and suffered for speculating and never really knowing what was happening with them.

There was a time when stories were circulated, half true half utter nonsense, about this or that member of the family, old tragedies dug up to see the light of day again, ancient speculations given a fresh coat of sensationalism, gossip spreading like wildfire... There was a time of war, and of desperation, and of life-altering change, but right now, there is a time of peace, and in the end, isn’t that all that matters? Any member of the royal family would certainly attest to that - Erebor is a peaceful country, now, after everything, and if anyone would ever be to dispute that, or even threaten it, history has only proven that even with its miniscule size, the monarchy is capable of weathering any and all adversity it might ever be pummeled with.

 

But none of that really matters to the little girl who is now running very fast, not because she means to get away from something - well, her teacher and numerous guardians might, after all, count for _something,_ but she sees no trouble in that - but because there is something she means to run _toward._

The grass below her feet is nothing but a bright green blur, not a care in the world for her shoes getting soaked with dew, or for the worried men and women chasing after her. She runs and runs, and then she sees it, and finds that one last bit of strength she didn’t even know she had to run even faster.

The distance between her and the tree seemingly nonexistent, it feels like a flash before she stands face to face with it, pressing her hand against its trunk almost reverently, and looking up, up high where the branches form a canopy of budding green with speckles of white, the blooms.

“Hello,” she waves, “how are you today?”

The tree only responds with a soft murmur, the wind ruffling its leaves, and if she closes her eyes, she can pretend it’s people whispering.

“There you are. I hear you’ve caused quite the stir.”

“ _Adad_!” she exclaims, and giggles as he scoops her up in his arms.

Over his shoulder, she sticks out her tongue at the people who had been chasing her up until this very moment, and who now stand still some distance away, straightening out their perfect suits, attempting not to look in the least alarmed _or_ out of breath. She doesn’t know this yet, but her father being the Crown Prince and all, she will always be allowed to run free where others would expect her to walk.

“Hello, little sun. Were you in a particular mood to spend your time with trees today?”

“It was blooming,” she explains, a perfectly valid reason in her world, “I wanted to come see up close. Isn’t it pretty?”

“Yes,” he sighs, “very pretty.”

Curiously she cards her little fingers through his hair and beard - perhaps one day, she will no longer be amazed with the color of it, bright copper and gold, like her own, like the sun itself, but today, her father remains the most radiant being she’s ever laid her eyes on - him, and the tree, of course.

“How old is it?” she asks, not for the first time, and probably not for the last.

“You know, I don’t rightly remember myself. Why don’t we find out? It’s all written there on that plaque. Will you read it to me?”

He sets her down gently, and she hurries to the golden tablet on a delicate stand near the trunk, squinting at the letters.

“ _Bilbo’s Oak,_ ” she reads slowly, carefully, “ _planted in..._ I can’t, _Adad_.”

“2018,” he supplies helpfully, “over twenty years ago. Can you read the rest?”

“ _Weather..._ no. Sorry, _Adad_ ,” she pouts.

“That’s alright, they are difficult words,” he smiles, coming to stand by her side once again. “It reads _‘For weathering adversity’._ Do you know what that means?”

She shakes her head absentmindedly, more interested in trying to pluck at the rough bark with her fingernails, and he looks up as well, at the dashes of sunlight dancing between the leaves, at the sprawling branches, and inhales the fresh air.

“It means that your Grandfather and Bilbo went through a lot to be able to plant this tree right here. And every year they watch it grow stronger, means one more year of peace.”

“Oh,” she comments.

“Bilbo would probably tell the story better,” Fili laughs, and ruffles her hair, which elicits a half surprised, half indignant gasp.

“Can we go see him, then?” she looks at him, huge eyes gleaming with hope.

“Of course,” he smiles, “I’m sure he would be thrilled to see you.”

 

The Palace only has so many floors, but to her, visiting Bilbo’s apartment always feels like climbing the highest tower, the gardens and the park spread out before her when she looks out the large windows, like someone had built it all out of meticulously carved wooden blocks, like she might just reach down and pick up anything she pleases, that car there, the pretty fountain, the oak tree itself...

“There you are!”

She yelps in surprise as Bilbo appears next to her, but it quickly dissolves into happy giggling, and she hurries for a hug, which he reciprocates warmly, although with some difficulty.

“Well, this is a lovely surprise! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Princess?”

“ _Adad_ said I could come see you,” she explains, “I went to see the tree.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure it was thrilled to see you too. It’s quite lovely in bloom, isn’t it?”

“It is!” she agrees, “Adad says that every time it grows stronger, you and Grandpa... I don’t remember the story.”

“I told her about weathering adversities,” her father smiles, and she isn’t capable of noticing it today, but later on, she will note that Bilbo’s expression is always the same when it gets mentioned - a fond smile, and a wealth of memories hiding behind it.

“But he said that you tell the story better,” the Princess sees it fit to mention, “so I wanna hear.”

“And would it be alright with you if I left you with Bilbo for a while, little sun?” her father chimes in, turning to Bilbo with that telling look adults always seem to share: “Duty calls.”

“But of course!” Bilbo smiles, “go, go, the two of us will be just fine, won’t we?”

“Just fine!” she echoes.

“Well, alright then. Someone will come pick you up for dinner, yes?” her father is smiling as well, and it will take some years yet for her to recognize _that_ particular look as well, but his mind is already turning to his work.

“Yes, _Adad_. Now I want to hear the story!”

 

It is not the first time she hears it, and certainly far from the last, but as far as she is concerned, it changes every time. She is allowed to sit in Bilbo’s rocking chair while he prepares them a cup of tea, and as it slowly moves, back and forth, back and forth, she looks out the large windows, the very top of the oak disappearing from her view every time she leans back into the chair to help its swing, only to reappear seconds later...

The story tells of a time long before hers, when there was no grey in Bilbo’s hair, when Grandfather didn’t need a cane yet, and when she closes her eyes, she can see them standing there, side by side on Durin’s square, and hear the chanting of the crowd, like a hymn rising so loud and so powerful, that it managed to drive the evil away.

Bilbo and the King are like the knights from the fairy tales her father reads to her before bedtime, the palace shining a brilliant white in the glow of the setting sun, the city roaring with celebrations, the sky painted with colorful fireworks, when it was finally over... She hears it, time and time again, because Bilbo really does tell it best, and it might take a couple years yet before she truly understands what adversities they really had to weather, but the fact remains that to her, it appears the bravest tale of them all.

She wakes up that afternoon, curled up in Bilbo’s rocking chair still, after having dreamt half the story instead of hearing it, and for the blink of an eye, she thinks she is in that dream still - the King stands before her, tall and broad, a crown of gold, the kindest smile on his face. But it only takes one more blink, and she realizes it’s the sun setting behind him, painting the entire room in warm hues of gold, lending the grey in his hair a richer tinge as well.

“Look who we have here,” he says, offering his hand, and she takes it, still a tad dazed, and lets him pull her to her feet.

“You fell asleep,” Bilbo is standing by his side now, just like in the paintings and the photographs, just like in the dream.

“You saved the world,” she exhales, the amazing impression of them never quite fading away.

They exchange yet another look she will only ever understand with more time, before laughing heartily, each grabbing one of her hands.

“Just a tiny part of it, in fact,” Bilbo explains softly, “now, I believe it is time for dinner.”

“And I, for one, am starving,” her Grandfather adds, “aren’t you, Dis?”

One day, she will also learn where her Grandfather’s mind wanders sometimes when he says her name, but for now, she really _is_ starving, and so she lets them lead her away, casting one last look back over her shoulder, out of the window where the setting sun makes the oak tree look like it’s bearing a crown of its own.

For the royal family and its young Princess, this is what _peace_ looks like.

 

-

 

And everything happens so fast in Erebor. He glares at the stack of documents on his desk, and he tries to recall the details of this morning's meeting. Digitalizing everything, right... How, again? By god, he isn't going to let this happen to his newspaper. Not The Arrow, not after everything. He's seen so many go the digital route and burn out, and he takes a lot of pride in keeping his papers afloat, and on actual _paper_. They already have a digital side, were among the first ones to do so way back when, but he will never not advocate for the joy of an actual physical copy of a paper.

It does come with a lot of headaches though, there's no denying that.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, picking up his tablet again - this is too troublesome for words. _The future is now_ , his wife likes to remind him, not without the occasional snigger. He'd much prefer it if it actually made things easier for them, but then, he is a stubborn man, he can agree with his wife on that.

"Mister Ibindikhel, sir!" his assistant peers inside just as Bard is about to give up altogether and go back to his old notebook and fountain pen. "It's time. Car's waiting outside."

"Oh," Bard sighs, "oh, of course. Thank you, Ed."

That, he isn't getting used to any time, either. There was a time when he lived on one crown per word - what, like, five eurocents these days? - and was glad when he could afford warm soup in the evening, much less a new coat, or ink for the pen that's lasted him all these years. And now... Now he has cars waiting to take him places, and drivers, and this stupid tablet thing that asks for his fingerprint every time he needs to access his files, and rings with notifications more often than his phone.

He doesn't recognize the driver at first sight, which is a source of some shame - he used to know every single person on his staff. But, well, alright, The Arrow moving into a much larger, fancier building (not a couple of floors in an office block, an actual whole _building_ ) downtown, and the corresponding promotion, have resulted in... this.

Saved from small talk, Bard at least watches the city as the car speeds through it, downhill, past the squares and historic buildings downtown, in between the dizzyingly swiftly growing business quarter across the river from the Palace...

He can scarcely believe how long it's been. He can still scarcely believe what he's about to do a report on. It all feels like yesterday.

The car slows down in the jam on Durin’s Square, and he stares at the freshly erected statue smack in the middle of the circular plateau.

_"...Which is why I am declaring this right here, right now - we might be small, and they might think us insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but Erebor will not bow down to any kind of oppression, anything that would threaten to destroy what we've fought for. Our power lies in our tradition, and I couldn't be happier to see all of you here today, believing in the same things I believe in..."_

_Our power lies in our tradition._

Shouts, chants of approval, arms raised in the air, a drumming that might be thousands of heartbeats at once, or it might be the melody with which their world changes. Might be one and the same.

That, and gunshots soon after.

It's been years. Almost thirty of them, dear god, filled with safety, and prosperity, and progress, and they commended Erebor on handling things so swiftly - the second revolution didn't even last a year. The monarchy didn't fall. The city didn't burn, or at least not in daylight. People died, but people always die. All in all, looking from the outside in, it was short lived, contained, an exciting footnote in history books about a country that held its own on the precipice of burning out, bravery, ideals, justice, determination and whatnot eventually winning over the greed of much bigger states trying to claim what was never rightfully theirs.

It's made for a couple of good songs over the years, and there's even talk of a movie, or so Bard has heard.

But if you weren't there, really _there_ , walking in the streets, standing with the crowds, grasping at straws to keep going every single day... If you weren't there at Durin’s Square that winter, or in front of the Palace in April, or anywhere in the country when the summer heat finally ushered in a victory, you didn't know. You couldn't know.

But that was then, and this is now.

Everybody always talks about knowing exactly where you were when the important things happened. Thirty years ago, and every single person you stop in the streets, who wasn't a toddler at the time, will tell you where they were when they learned about the shooting. _Yeah, I was right there_ , tends to meet with disbelief, and these days, Bard doesn't have the patience to repeat time and time again, _no, you don't understand, I was_ right there.

_Had to throw out my shirt later, because the blood wouldn’t wash out._

But right now, as the car carries him out of the city, the scenery changing, tall buildings and neat sidewalks turning into scattered villages and fields of green, overshadowed by forests, it looks like they've really escaped unscathed, and it's good to know the country has changed accordingly, but still remembers.

 _The future is now_. Now that they've fought to make sure of that, anyway.

 

He _might_ doze off on the way, but then it has been a very long week, and an even longer month, and besides, the subject of this particular article doesn't require that much preparation. Bard already knows everything he needs to know. He was there, there for all of it.

He snorts awake when gravel starts crunching underneath the tires of the car, and clambers out somewhat laboriously, his mood instantly improved with the first inhale of fresh mountain air. After setting up a later time with the driver to come pick him up - there was a time he'd walk here like five miles from the train station in the village - he stretches his somewhat aged back, and sighs at the sight of the house, drowning in seasonal greenery.

It really does feel like coming home, if home had served as a makeshift revolutionary den, a bunker, a safe haven, and, yes, even a temporary office for his newspaper, during that one unforgettable summer.

But of course, the feeling of everyone else getting younger around them - and believing that, instead of admitting that they might be in fact getting older - is a new one.

The maids welcome him inside and tell him to wait, and so he does, breathing it in. The house is quiet, and majestic, and clean, as always, but it will be a cold day in hell before Bard eradicates the sound of shattering glass, and the smoke rolling like very slow waves down the broad staircase, and the shouts, from his memory...

"Always so grim, my goodness."

Bard is shaken - or, gently coaxed, more like - out of his reverie, and he smiles at the man standing atop the stairs, receiving a fond reciprocation.

"Afternoon, Your Highness," he mocks, and Bilbo scowls.

"Oh, do shut up. Or should I say do shut up, _Sire_."

"We both hate the titles we weren't born into, touche," Bard sighs.

"Painfully true. Come on, we might as well wait with some tea and biscuits, as far as I'm concerned."

"He isn't here?" Bard asks, patently not noticing Bilbo descending the stairs with all the difficulty of a man whose acquired noble status didn't come without its fair share of... accidents along the way.

"Oh, please," Bilbo huffs with some indignation, "he just takes ages to convalesce from his afternoon naps these days."

"Charming."

"You're telling me."

The sitting room, also all the same, even though nothing has technically been the same since the fire... But it's in the air. Familiarity, and, even despite all the horrors this room has been through, a sense of security.

"How have you been?" Bilbo asks him, "how's the family?"

"Oh, swell," Bard sighs, sinking into an armchair himself, helping himself to the aforementioned tea and biscuits already waiting, "Fridda’s second term is coming up, so she’s questioning her decision to join politics once more. Sends her regards, of course, and promises to actually bake something next time, but you know how that usually works out. Let’s see... Sigrid is shipping out again in three weeks... Bain is graduating in two. Tilda is showing high school a more difficult time than it is showing her, really."

"Good, good," Bilbo smiles into his cuppa, "I'm glad to hear it. My regards to all of them."

"Thank you. How did Fili take the news?"

"I believe his exact words were _took you long enough_ ," Bilbo snorts, "in all honesty, he is more than ready enough. Has been for a long time."

"No argument there," Bard nods, "and the King?"

"Well," Bilbo mumbles, looking pensive for a moment, "it did take him long enough."

"How is he taking it?" Bard is fully aware he's already slipping into interview mode, but Bilbo doesn't seem to mind, and besides, there is no recorder rolling just yet.

"I don't think he can even fathom not being King, not really. But it _was_ his idea..."

“That it was. Afternoon, Bard.”

“Your Majesty,” Bard hurries to stand up, grunting halfway there, to the amusement of everyone present, especially, it seems, the King himself.

“Please, dear lord, stay where you are,” Thorin half laughs, half orders, “I’d like to think that at least among friends, we don’t have to pretend like old age isn’t getting to us.”

To some, like Bard himself, more visibly than some others. Even with his hair gone grey, his story written in the intricate web of wrinkles on his face, the King remains a magnificent figure, features of marble and fire in his eyes. Even here, arranging himself in _his_ armchair next to Bilbo with some difficulty as well, forgoing anything even resembling formal attire for a comfortable sweater instead, his hand twisted with the kind of ache that will never leave him now, as he searches for Bilbo’s and squeezes, short, reassuring...

Even here, even now, he is the man who stood up on Durin’s Square fifteen years ago, alone against the entire rest of the world, and fended off disaster after disaster, simply because he _believed._ They were enough then, Bilbo and him, to convince an entire nation of its worth and importance, of its strength and values, enough to turn the tide of the revolution in their favor, and for the first time in actual _decades,_ Bard is reminded of the way he _used to_ see them, before days, weeks, months, spent tense and worried and always scheming together, before they did indeed become friends.

Larger than life, easily.

_I was right there. For a time, the two of you were everything that stood between us and total collapse, and somehow you managed to carry that weight on your shoulders all that time. And now, the future we fought so hard to make happen is finally here, and it’s difficult to believe that the time has come to step aside and let it play out._

“Hm?”

He realizes there might have been a question directed at him, and shakes his head to force himself back to the here and now. Thorin and Bilbo watch him with slight amusement, hand in hand still, and his head fills instead with the reassuring silence of the building around them, the distant chirping of birds coming in through an open window somewhere, the soft scent of tea.

“I said, are you feeling quite alright?” Bilbo inquires, that telltale quirk of his eyebrow, unchanged throughout all these years.

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine,” Bard sighs, fumbling somewhat to prepare his equipment, then finally concentrating on Thorin himself. “So, are you ready to go on record?”

The glance Thorin and Bilbo exchange doesn’t escape him, and certainly doesn’t surprise him - it’s always been there, and it’s always _going to_ be there, Thorin seeking reassurance, and Bilbo offering it, be it with an almost imperceptible nod.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” the King smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

“Your Highness! Princess Dis! Look this way! Give us a smile!”

The rush is always the same, so familiar in fact that she almost feels like she can stop time, experience each second stretched into an hour, a lifetime. The grasp of her bodyguard’s hand on her arm, tugging her forth; the flash of a dozen cameras, all pointed in her face. The cacophony of voices, her name shouted at her from a million different directions; and the the open car door, waiting for her like a safe refuge.

Today is not a day for smiling, and she hides behind her sunglasses in one quick, practiced move - she hesitates only for a fraction of a moment about her next course of action, but hey, she’s already in trouble, so...

Besides, it’s hardly her first time quite literally giving the cameras the middle finger, and she doubts it will be the last.

“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” her driver greets her jovially as the car escapes the crowd, “enjoyed yourself, did you?”

“Yeah, it was awesome. Would have been more fun if I were able to stay for more than twenty minutes, but hey,” she throws her hands up in the air, “can’t have everything, can you. What are _you_ doing, picking me up, Bofur?”

 _Sorry for that,_ she’s already typing an apology to her friends, _I’ll make it up to you? Next coffee’s on me._

“And who else, pray tell, do you think would be willing to come fetch you from the very center of the city at the height of rush hour?,” the driver teases her fondly, perfectly unaffected by her murderous glare.

“Yes, I am endlessly lucky to have you,” she rolls her eyes, “when are you retiring again?”

“Didn’t they tell you? I’ve been driving the royal family for four hundred years now, and I don’t intend to stop any time soon.”

“And funny, too! A killer combo.”

“Why, thank you.”

She curls up on herself, staring blankly outside, as Bofur navigates away from the downtown area, proficient now at taking all the confusing sharp turns to make the car impossible to track by those of the paparazzi hungry enough for a picture to follow them all the way home. There will no doubt be others camping by the main gate when they arrive, but she won’t have to deal with _those_ \- they’ll never get to see an inch of her beyond a blurry silhouette behind darkened car windows.

She flips _those_ off, too, when they get there, deriving some satisfaction from both the act itself, and the split-second mildly horrified look on the face of the bodyguard next to her, but then, all that’s left is the Palace coming into view as they drive past lane after meticulous lane of bushes cut to size.

Boring, boring, boring. She only acknowledges the staff greeting her at the entrance in passing, taking the stairs to the second floor by two, ignoring the recital of her schedule for the rest of the afternoon performed by none other than her electronic nanny, always poised to connect to her phone the second she steps foot inside the palace. _People,_ she can get away from. The disembodied AI with a carefully selected neutral accent that follows her every step, now that’s a bit harder.

“I think I’ll just do some studying before my violin lesson,” she announces sweetly to her bodyguards, and while they do exchange a somewhat suspicious glance, they merely nod and station themselves at her door, which she promptly slams behind her, finally, finally alone in her room.

It’s not that she particularly enjoys causing them trouble - Harold has been with her since she was a baby, and he knows her through and through, and the new one, Max, is cute, albeit a bit confused at all times - but she values her freedom too much. And if she’s right, Dad isn’t anywhere near the Palace at this hour...

She turns the volume up on her sound system - she can already imagine Harold rolling his eyes outside her door - and makes her way to her wardrobe, grabbing her violin on the way. From there, it’s a simple question of unlatching the panel that obscures the utility closet entrance, and sneaking through the narrow space out into the maids’ room. She runs into one of the younger ones in there, shushing her sharply at the first sign of a shocked gasp.

“You’re new,” she hisses.

“Y-yes, Your Highness, I’m - I started this week...”

“Welcome to the madhouse. You will be briefed about this soon,” Dis proclaims with such authoritative certainty that the maid can do nothing but nod, and move aside, letting her pass.

Once, she used to wonder if this convenient little _design flaw_ , allowing her to momentarily escape out of the sight of her guards, had been put there deliberately - but then, at some point, she learned from her Uncle that those used to be his quarters when he was growing up, and she didn’t wonder anymore.

She does miss Uncle Kili, especially these days - it’s been ages since he visited, and Dad is always much more relaxed around him. She does know, from the stories, that the King used to be just as much of a troublemaker as his younger brother, but it’s decidedly difficult to imagine her father sneaking through _anywhere_ to escape _his_ guards. But, well, she has to take after someone, she supposes.

“Sorry, boys!” she calls, emerging at the very end of the corridor, taking the stairs by two, laughing carelessly as they groan in unison, taking off after her - it’s a cat and mouse game they’ve been playing for years now, and they know where she’s going, and she knows that they know, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t endlessly enjoy riling them up.

She reaches the topmost floor without being stopped by anyone, _thanks Harold_ , and pushes the door open almost timidly - it’s always like this. They haven’t actually lived here for years now, but she still expects to find them on the other side of that door, sitting side by side on the ancient sofa, fire crackling in the fireplace, some soft old song keeping them quiet company.

“Hi grandpa,” she whispers, into the silence, the cold, slightly stale air, “hi Bilbo. I’m just gonna sit here for a while, if you don’t mind.”

The only response she receives is the creaking of ancient floorboards under the soles of her shoes, as she moves on to light the lamp in the very center of the vast room, by one of the pillars - she doesn’t actually need a whole lot of light, and the soft, warm glow of the old thing further reminds her of the fireplace, while also being subtle enough so as not to alert the entirety of the Hurmulkezer to her presence up here.

The armchair is exactly the way she left it the last time, pointed toward the window, overlooking the park below - as if on cue, the lamps down there turn on just as she sits down, the entirety of the gardens coming alive in the approaching dusk, lanterns like fireflies around all the pathways criss-crossing the courtyard, arching away from the Palace, until they disappear deep into the park.

Bilbo’s Oak has a lamp of its own, and it feels like yesterday, when it was about the same height as the tree - its light is now obscured by strong branches, flickering as a light breeze gently sways them.

She secures her violin in place on her shoulder with her chin, simply staring outside for a good long while, deciding on a melody - when it does come to her, it is slow, gentle, simple, but with an almost aching twist to it every now and then, and she is convinced she must have heard here once upon a time, letting herself inside, only to find Thorin and Bilbo slow-dancing to yet another ancient tune, paying her no mind at first, or maybe letting her watch on purpose.

“You’ve been getting so much better.”

She gasps, her melody ending on an ugly note as her bow slides down the strings all wrong when she turns her head to look behind her.

“ _Adad_! What are you doing here?”

He smiles, approaching her slowly, hands in his pockets, seemingly just as interested in the view as she was, just a moment ago.

“I managed to escape early today,” he says, “thought I’d have dinner at an actual table, with my family, for once.”

“Wow,” Dis comments, “alert the authorities. Mom will be shocked.”

“I know, I know,” he scowls apologetically, “I was thinking about surprising her, too. If you can keep it a secret until dinnertime, that is.”

“My lips are sealed,” she proclaims seriously, and then, without really knowing what else to do, she goes back to her violin, plucking at the strings idly with her fingers now, attempting to recapture something of the elusive melody from before.

“I am told we are to expect quite a foray of exciting pictures of you in the press very soon,” her father _does_ get to the gist of his reason for being here, after all, and Dis sighs.

“It’s nothing,” she insists, “I promise. It was... I was stupid enough to think I could grab coffee with the girls like a normal person.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary - got jumped by paps, what would you expect?”

“You didn’t get _jumped,_ Dis, you _lingered._ You had a perfectly clear schedule which you decided to deviate from, and-”

“See, _Adad,_ that’s the point!” she exclaims, “I didn’t want _a schedule_! I wanted to go out with my friends, watch a movie, eat burgers, and go home.”

“ _Without_ telling anyone beforehand,” he reminds her, standing next to her armchair now, arms behind his back, much more of a King than a father - that, too, she’s used to.

“You know you have certain responsibilities,” he continues, and even his _tone_ is there again, in good old lecture territory. “We all do, even in our free time, no matter how much we would like to just disappear from the public eye. You are not eighteen yet, Dis, and I’d like to think that even when you do reach that age, you will remember to act accordingly-”

“ _Adad,_ come _on,_ ” she whines, “it wasn’t even that serious! What are a couple more pictures, in the _bottomless pit_ of them that the media have accumulated since I was a baby, huh?”

“It’s not just that! This is not a solitary incident, Dis. Do you think we haven’t noticed, your mother and I, that this has been becoming a habit of yours lately? Always acting out, looking for ways to break protocol, always thinking about your own _freedom_ , long before you think about anyone else! Now, I know _you_ know better than that, you don’t have a bad bone in your body, so I would like to find out what’s behind all this-”

“Really, Da?” she scoffs, scrambling to her feet, facing him directly, clutching her violin to her side. “You’re presuming a whole lot of things about me, considering you’ve spent, what, like, _a day_ with me in this past month?”

“That’s hardly fair, Dis...”

“Is it? And how _fair_ is it to me, huh?”

She doesn’t know what it is these days, that always drives such a wedge between them - that leaves them like this, glaring at each other, incapable of bridging the growing gap between them. It wasn’t always like this, and when his stern facade falters, a heavy sigh alongside his favorite childhood nickname for her, _little sun,_ she does feel an almost unbearable pang of guilt, suddenly ready to just drop everything for the chance to be able to run into his arms again.

“We’ll talk about this after dinner,” he decides at last, “with your mother, too.”

“Awesome,” she huffs a humorless laugh, “really looking forward to that.”

It’s he who _lingers_ after that, even though she turns away from him, curls up in the armchair again, resolutely resuming her playing, the melody less refined, louder, as if channeling her hostility towards him.

“I’ll see you there,” he decides at last, Dis slowing down in her playing, listening to his footsteps slowly fading, until a gentle click of the door announces her regained solitude. Her phone pings with a reminder, _Violin Lesson at 1700,_ and she rolls her eyes, letting the instrument rest in her lap as she stretches her arms high above her head, imagining Bilbo swearing up and down, _the minute I let them install that bloody thing in here to watch over our every movement is the day I retire,_ and as always, even the memory of him succeeds at bringing a smile to her face.

It is only thanks to him, and his vehement refusal towards anything that would threaten their treasured privacy, that this place is the only spot in the entire Palace that remains AI and camera-free; just as Bilbo remains the only person with any kind of sway over her father, his very clear wishes apparently important enough so that everyone abides by them even now, years later, Bilbo and Thorin only ever coming to visit anymore.

Sometimes, she wishes she knew how Bilbo used to wrangle and manage her father and Uncle Kili so well, and apply some of that knowledge on the King herself.

 

“What? Don’t you think I have enough _lessons_ already?”

Every day. Every day, she wishes there were something to make _Adad_ _see._

“Please,” she manages to sound somewhat earnest, “I don’t need to sit and learn about _the media_ , I’ve been dealing _with_ the media my entire life!”

“Yes, and look at how that’s turning out for all of us,” the King smiles mildly, tapping the front page of the newspaper open on the tablet on his desk, accusatory.

Dis sighs heavily. There have been worse pictures of her, and yet, with this one, they seem to be engaged in _speculating_ again. _RESTLESS PRINCESS: Teenage turmoil too much to handle for the Hurmulkezer?_

Nah, just bored. She wishes she were able to set things straight.

“It... won’t happen again,” she says, only half believing the words herself, “I have that... speech thing next week, remember? I’ll wear my best button-down, I’ll look super serious and grown up, I swear-”

“ _That speech thing_ is the annual Young Minds Summit, hosted by your very school, and they _do_ expect _the patron_ of it to look somewhat serious, yes,” her father comments, “but that’s beside the point. You _will_ attend these lessons I have set up for you, until I’m confident that the first step you take outside the Palace won’t result in a disaster. Is that understood?”

She glares.

“Besides, I have a feeling that you might end up liking Miss Kidzulzân in the end. Your grandfather and Bilbo certainly did, no matter how intimidating she appears.”

“They - huh?”

Dammit, he _does_ know how to get her attention, still.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” he appears very pleased with himself, “Miss Kidzulzân was the Crown’s advisor for the longest time!”

“She was?”

“Oh, yes. It all started when your grandfather needed someone to help him handle his somewhat hasty coming out, back in... Oh, but it’s been ages, I don’t think I remember the year anymore...”

“2016!” she exclaims, before she can really stop herself, and he quirks one eyebrow, his smile very telling.

“...I think,” Dis adds, much less enthusiastically.

“I think you’re right. Anyway, yes, Miss Kidzulzân was instrumental in making that happen, and stayed with our family for many years after that.”

“Even during the uprising?”

“ _Especially_ during the uprising,” the King nods, and yeah, she’s sold now - he’s convinced her, damn him.

“I guess I... could meet with her,” she concedes, taking care not to sound overly excited about it, and her father’s smile never diminishes.

“I guess you could.”

“But! If it interferes with my school duties-”

“Wouldn’t that be a horror.”

“ _Adad_!”

“Don’t worry, little sun,” he grins, “I would never let anything take away from what precious little _school_ time you have.”

“Don’t get all sarcastic with me, Adad.”

“Excuse me, the King reserves his right to be as sarcastic as the situation requires, whenever it requires.”

 

It’s not like it’s a hobby of hers, or anything - more like a particular way to spend the time. Alright, more like an obsession, when she was younger. She still remembers it as if it were yesterday, the family all gathering in the garden, the sense of anticipation, _we’re throwing your grandpa and Bilbo a surprise party, little sun,_ and when she inquired what the occasion was, she learned for the first time that some anniversaries were always meant for the public to share, and some were kept more private, to be celebrated away from prying eyes, but no less thoroughly.

She must have been around six or seven then, and Uncle Kili had sat her on his knee and explained to her that people, the public, the world, hadn’t always been so accepting of two men spending their lives together, and especially not two men as important as the then King and Bilbo. She remembers looking into his eyes very seriously, and proclaiming _but that’s stupid,_ and he laughed and laughed, and said _yeah, I know, right? Stupid._

She’s seen it all, having scoured for it throughout her adolescence - the first Erebor Pride March Thorin and Bilbo appeared in, thousands upon thousands of people cheering them on, Durin’s Square turned into one big rainbow. The talk shows, local _and_ foreign, asking them an entire slew of questions, ranging from uncomfortably personal to outright offensive, and the two of them always fending all of it off with an incredible, effortless grace.

The old, _ancient_ photos she had to _really_ employ her prowess with scouring the Internet to obtain, the matching rings on their fingers, the rainbow-colored bracelets, the shaky 2D videos of them appearing at this or that function, young, fresh-faced, _clearly_ so thoroughly, utterly happy... The countless, _countless_ articles about them, interviews or otherwise, the speculations, the downright insulting ones and the incredibly positive ones, she’s read it all.

She’s read it all, soaked it up until the timeline of the events of their early life, when her own father was still a boy, was seared into her memory, the most exciting history lesson she’s ever taken - and willingly, too.

She remembers running up to the apartment on the topmost floor of the Palace, always finding at least one of them there, and matching them up with the pictures in her mind, seeing them older, quieter, but no less... happy. There wasn’t a single moment, as she was growing up, when they didn’t seem exactly that - perfectly happy.

Sometimes, she would go and stand in front of Bilbo’s Oak, the tree they had planted together so many years ago, and inspect every inch of it, every indentation in its bark, every twig and leaf, for any sign of a weakness or illness, but she would always leave satisfied. _Every year they watch it grow stronger, means one more year of peace,_ her father had once said, and she remembers anxiously googling it one day, she couldn’t have been older than around eleven or twelve - _how long do oaks live?_ And the subsequent relief, when the answer turned out to be just what she’d hoped for - _hundreds of years._

It feels like hundreds of years away now, this. She leans forward, watching intently as her grandfather’s - well great-uncle’s, but the day she starts calling him that will be the day _she_ retires - face comes into focus on the recording. He’s so incredibly young, she almost doesn’t recognize him - around forty, if her calculations are correct, all done up in royal blue, with that red sash Dis’ own father wears to every official function to this day, descending down the stairs in the Great Hall, slow and majestic. The video has no sound, but she can hear it in her head anyway, the music swelling, the entire huge hall buzzing with expectation, then the applause breaking out... She’s lived through it before, and it’s an experience unlike any other.

“Why are you showing me this, though?” she blurts out, perhaps a bit rudely, but she receives only a somewhat unreadable quirk of one stern eyebrow - Miss Kidzulzân doesn’t move an inch, merely beckons her to go on watching with one curt motion of her head.

“Do you know what year this is from?” she asks.

“Uhh... early? _Adad_ was definitely a kid - oh my god, there he is! Look how tiny! And Uncle, he is so _adorable!_ ”

“Concentrate, Your Highness, please.”

“Right, uh,” Dis clears her throat, “well, _Adad_ \- my father looks about my age? A bit younger? Fifteen, sixteen? So definitely before the uprising, but... after Bilbo came here? Where _is_ Bilbo?”

“That’s a very good question,” Miss Kidzulzân says, taking a step closer, and for just a second, Dis is allowed to watch her instead of the ancient recording, the strange shadow of... something, in her face, like an emotion she doesn’t plan on divulging.

From what she understands - and has googled before they met - Galadriel Kidzulzân is halfway between sixty and seventy, around the same age as Bilbo in fact, but she looks so incredibly sharp in all whites, with hair so pale it’s almost platinum pulled back into an elegant updo, distinguished, elegant, and, above all, contained, her age only an afterthought in the chiseled features of her face. She is, quite frankly, stunning, and not a small bit intimidating, and Dis _would_ stare more often, if it didn’t mean meeting with a glare of an intensity she can’t hope to match, not yet.

“This is the year 2016,” Miss Kidzulzân declares, and Dis is quick to look back at the screen before them. “Your father had just turned fifteen years old, and Bilbo had returned to the Palace some time before that.”

“Returned...?” Dis squints, “from where?”

“England, of course. Perhaps this is a story you might want to hear from him. For now, concentrate on finding him in this recording.”

She does, and becomes frustrated rather quickly.

“He’s nowhere! Did he skip it?”

“Not quite,” Miss Kidzulzân shakes her head, and pauses the video with one languid wave of her hand. “You see, after your great-uncle-”

“Grandfather,” Dis interjects.

“...If you wish. After your grandfather had made the decision to ever so bravely come out as the very first homosexual monarch of his time, a great lot of things were put in motion.”

“I know about all that,” Dis has to restrain herself from sounding too impatient, “all the stuff he had to deal with, the, uh, backlash from the media...”

“Yes, all of that,” Miss Kidzulzân smiles ever so lightly, “now I invite you to think about a lone foreigner who had just decided to start _courting_ the first ever openly gay monarch. What _stuff_ do you figure _he_ had to deal with?”

Dis looks from her to the recording, paused at the image of Thorin dancing with some lady, the camera focused on them among all the other couples on the floor, a pleasant smile on his face, stars in her eyes.

“Is that why he’s not in the video?” she ventures a guess.

“2016 was also the year that I came into the employ of the royal family, you see. My first ever job, before mediating uprisings and what have you, was to ensure that your... grandfather and Bilbo Baggins would not get themselves into any more trouble than they were already in. You cannot find Bilbo in the video, because I employed every possible trick in the book to _make him_ not appear in it.”

“Huh... Why?”

“Because, Your Highness, the only way I could ensure that the repercussions of your grandfather’s decision would not have any negative consequences for the royal family, was to control the fallout, so to speak. The situation is so very different these days, but you know very well that anything too sudden, anything too fantastical or gossip-worthy happening to your family, still causes an uproar that is often extremely difficult to handle, and steer in a direction that benefits rather than harms you.”

Dis’ mind travels to the tabloid headline hovering over the gif of her, moments before she flipped the cameras off, putting her sunglasses on, squaring her shoulders... The resignation in her father’s voice, rather than anger. It used to be anger, but now...

“I forbade your grandfather and Bilbo from making their relationship public for over a year,” Miss Kidzulzân states firmly, and Dis is left staring at her, dumbfounded.

“Seriously?!”

“Seriously,” the woman nods. “Your family could not afford a scandal of that magnitude at the time.”

“A scandal - it wasn’t a _scandal!_ ” Dis counters, “it was a... a relationship! A good thing!”

“In the long run, yes. But right there and then, it threatened the King’s credibility, and by association, the stability of the entire monarchy at the time. There is one thing you must understand, Your Highness - something that Bilbo came to learn the hard way, but he did learn it. No matter how you come to them, being a part of the royal family means sharing all its burdens. All of them. It means putting an ancient idea, and a whole lot of tradition supporting that idea, first. No matter how ridiculous it might seem, no matter how difficult it turns out to be. Believe me when I say that Bilbo was _not_ a quick learner. He did have good motivation, but was he always patient? Did he always listen to me? Absolutely not.”

Dis glares.

“You might have some trouble with me, too,” she declares.

“Yes, I imagine so,” Galadriel smiles, and appears, if anything, pleased.

 

And Dis tries, she really does. She _does_ wear a nice button-up for the summit thing, and she has a good speech prepared that she wrote herself this time, and she thinks not only her father, but Miss Kidzulzân, too, would be proud of her, surely - it goes off without a hitch, the presenting itself, the entire _looking presentable_ business, but then, of course, there is the press.

Now, she’s had extensive training _and_ practice in the matter, and she is generally sociable and good at improvising, especially when it comes to conjuring a fancy answer to a particularly crafty or nosy question - a family trait at this point - but what she despises with a ferocity is people pretending they know her.

She usually has no trouble effortlessly deflecting every single question that doesn’t suit her, but _this guy_ looks her straight in the eye, unremarkable among the flock of journalists crowding her up until that point, and asks, her point blank, _do you think being a face of the Young Minds Summit goes hand in hand with your recent teenage turmoil?_

And she _knows_ she should hide behind a perfectly polished smile, she even knows what she should say, _be funny and cute about admitting your mistakes, feed them something about moving on and growing,_ but she’s just about had enough. The hem of her stupid _sensible_ cardigan itches around her throat, and she feels that overwhelming wave of defiance approaching to wash over her once again - and suddenly, there doesn’t exist a single reason to stop it.

“Do you believe asking stupid questions goes hand in hand with being a hack journalist? Feels that way to me.”

It’s not even a particularly vitriolic comeback, although her father will most certainly disagree - but it does give her the satisfaction of watching the perfect, astonished o’s on everyone’s faces, and in that one moment out of time, it is enough.

“This is over,” she announces, and turns away at the exact moment that the cacophony of shouted questions begins, all the microphones and recording devices shoved into her face.

Alright then, getting better at this will definitely be a process. She can already see the headlines.

 

-

 

It’s days like these that he really appreciates being away from the city, their decision to move here reaffirmed time and time again. The rain has been a soft murmur on their windows since the morning, and they opt for a quiet time in, Bilbo reading in the drawing room while Thorin tends to the bare minimum of his duties in his study, both of them already planning to make their afternoon together as peaceful as humanly possible.

They don’t have anything scheduled until after the weekend, no interviews, no public appearances, nothing, which is why the unmistakable sound of car wheels crunching the gravel of their driveway surprises both of them, to say the least.

“At this hour?” postulates Thorin, already at the top of the stairs by the time Bilbo limps his way over, just looking for a distraction no doubt.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo sighs, “it _is_ well within our rights to tell people to sod off these days, is it not?”

“Of course, but... Well, look at that.”

“Is that...?”

The sight of them must really be quite something, side by side in the doorway, Bilbo leaning on his cane while Thorin all but rubs his eyes in disbelief, and it shows in the smile tugging at the corners of the Princess’s mouth, winning over the sour expression she got out of the car with almost altogether by the time she makes it across the yard to them.

“Your Highness!” exclaims Bilbo, “to what do we owe this rare pleasure?”

She opens her mouth to respond, following their line of sight as they notice the butler unloading her luggage from the car, and Bilbo notices something pained in her expression, right before she sighs heavily and throws her arms around both of them, almost knocking their heads together in a very literal sense.

“I’m really sorry,” she mumbles, “do you think I could stay with you for a couple of days?”

Allowed to disentangle somewhat, Bilbo and Thorin exchange a quick look, before paying attention to Dis. Bilbo inclines his head - _she looks like she could use it._ Thorin arches his eyebrow - _do I need to call her father?_ Bilbo rolls his eyes - _she’s not a child anymore. Let’s not presume anything._

“Is everything alright?” Bilbo braves the waters first, and the flicker of defiance in her eyes reminds him of her father quite strongly.

“Yeah, it’s just... Look, _His Majesty_ is abroad for two weeks. So is Mom. School is... well, I have my books with me.”

“Did you come here... alone?” Thorin wonders, trying to crane his neck as inconspicuously as possible to see if _two cars_ is really all the entourage the Palace equipped her with. Bilbo nudges him with his cane.

“Miss Kidzulzân suggested it.”

 _That_ look exchanged between them speaks volumes.

“Ah,” Bilbo smiles. “Well then, if _Miss Kidzulzân_ suggested it...”

“Let’s get you settled in,” Thorin motions for her to come inside, and for a fleeting second or two, she’s a decade younger, running towards his outstretched hands across the back yard, barefoot in the grass, the widest grin plastered across her face.

“Thank you,” she sighs, and there’s a hint of exhaustion behind that relief, the kind that no seventeen-year-old should be experiencing at this time and age - Bilbo checks with Thorin, to see if he’s noticed the same. They exchange a shrug, and follow her to find out more.

“I promise I won’t be any trouble,” she recites, marching resolutely up the stairs to where her childhood bedroom remains unchanged year after year. “I just need a quiet place to lay low and read. Miss Kidzulzân thought it would be a good idea to... Uh, actually, it was me. I needed to... you know. Not be _there_ for a second. And she was okay with me taking a break. I’ll be back before Mom and Dad are, I promise...”

“Meaning they don’t know you’ve gone?” Thorin offers, and she groans, brewing a no doubt scathing rebuttal, but it never comes.

“It’s fine, Grandpa,” she stops abruptly at the door to her bedroom, turning to face them without any prior warning, almost making Bilbo and Thorin, _and_ the entourage of her bodyguards carrying the rest of her luggage, run into her and one another. “He always wants me at the top of my game anyway. I’ll call it a, uh... sabbatical or something, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“Dis, darling, is there something...” Bilbo starts somewhat uncertainly, and receives a truly trademark Durin Megawatt Smile in return - the one meant for fending off uncomfortable questions with grace and poise, a tried and true family tradition. It almost makes him shudder.

“Everything’s fine,” she dismisses him, both of them. “I’ll unpack, and I’ll see you downstairs in a bit, alright?”

“Alright, but...”

“Thank you so much for letting me stay with you. Really.”

And really, it’s been a while since they were left staring dumbfounded at _anything,_ least of all a door gently, but firmly slammed in their faces, so this might very well be an extremely refreshing experience.

“Do you think I should call Fili?” Thorin wonders, the two of them having wisely decided to give the Princess some time, retreating back downstairs.

“I don’t see why,” Bilbo says, “he’s clearly busy, and she _is_ here safe and sound. Miss Kidzulzân, on the other hand...”

“What about her?”

“Let’s just say I know better than most what an absolute delight she can be. I’m still a little concerned that Fili felt the need to get her to _teach_ Dis anything.”

“From what I understand, she _was_ becoming a bit difficult to handle-”

“Oh _please,_ ” Bilbo waves his hand at him fussily, “nothing out of the ordinary, really, given the demands placed upon her...”   
“Right, and you know what those demands are,” Thorin reminds him, giving him space to pour them both a cup of tea, while also keeping close enough, preparing the mugs and biscuits while Bilbo works on the kettle. A comfortable habit by now, and the kitchen shrinks just to the two of them, occupying the same space effortlessly.

“You know how difficult it is,” he continues, “you of all people. There is no one better to assist in these matters than Miss Kidzulzân. I think it was clever of Fili to call on her help.”

“Pah!” Bilbo huffs, “good or not, if Dis felt the need to escape the Palace and come all the way out here, _something_ is obviously not alright. And I’m going to find out just what it is.”

“Suit yourself,” Thorin laughs gently, somehow succeeding at planting a quick peck on Bilbo’s cheek when he isn’t looking. “Do let me know _before_ you two end up destroying the pantry again, will you? I don’t think the poor housekeeper could take it.”

“That was one time!”

 

For his part, Bilbo decides that _space_ is what she needs the most - Thorin has other ideas, of course he does, but Bilbo stops him in time before he embarrasses the both of them, explaining to him in no uncertain terms that he should spend more time thinking back to when _he himself_ was seventeen years old, rather than presuming he is allowed to order the girl around. She came here to _rest,_ after all, and if she needs to talk, she will find her way to them, that much Bilbo is certain of.

He does walk by the door to her room many times, stopping for just a moment, hesitating, but he never intrudes - far too well does he remember Fili and Kili at this age, reluctant to even acknowledge anyone else’s presence, much less stoop to something as thoroughly humiliating as sharing their feelings. God forbid.

And really, it’s simply nice to have another soul in the house - the visits are so rare these days, the King preoccupied, his brother spending more time abroad than he does at home, and it would seem that Bilbo and Thorin have reached that age where every encounter with family is to be treasured endlessly.

“I’m just saying, if he weren’t so damn _protective,_ I would have stayed! But no, he has to hire me a, a media nanny? I’m sorry, Grandpa, but that’s just ridiculous.”

“Oh dear,” Bilbo whimpers, hurrying to the kitchen as fast as his limp allows him - honestly, he leaves Thorin alone for _one second._ He can already hear the tone of his voice, gently disapproving, although he can’t make out the words.

“What does it matter if he was trying to help?” Dis continues her fiery tirade, “I can take care of myself at this point! You’d think he’d appreciate that, but no-o...”

“I must say, _azyungel,_ you surprise me. The last time I visited...”

“The last time you visited was _ages_ ago, Grandpa. Things have changed - Bilbo! Tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Bilbo asks, amused at the sight of Her Royal Highness sitting on the tiled kitchen floor, cross-legged, a tub of ice cream in her lap, while his own esteemed husband watches over her, somewhat befuddled. Mrs Sskdlhglk has given up on her duties in the kitchen, sitting in a chair by the door and reading.

“You know,” she gesticulates with a spoonful of vanilla, “how difficult _my father_ can be.”

“Oh, I think we are both very well acquainted with _that,_ ” Bilbo laughs, and then, careful not to sound too curious: “Has he been giving you more grief than usual?”

“You know Miss Kidzulzân.”

“I’m familiar with her, yes.”

“Well, I was under the impression that she was, like, a relic of a bygone era-”

“You know, we _could_ take that personally.”

“Oh, relax. She’s amazing, of course she is, but both her and the King have got it in their heads that I can’t last a minute in _the outside world_ without their assistance. I can write my own speeches, dammit!”

It’s their main means of communicating these days, exchanging meaningful looks. Bilbo drags himself a chair away from the table to sit closer to Dis, while Thorin has an admittedly more difficult time looking at ease, pacing the kitchen in a fruitless search for something to do with his hands.

“We did see the newest article,” Bilbo says gently, and she rolls her eyes.

“Mm, of course you did,” she groans through a mouthful of ice-cream, “it’s amazing, isn’t it? How they can make you look like a supervillain with a couple of carefully selected words.”

“I thought you looked quite fetching,” Bilbo offers, and she scoffs, but the beginnings of a reluctant smile are already there.

“It does get impossible sometimes,” adds Thorin, looking a bit unsure with himself when her attention is redirected to him - like he isn’t quite convinced he _knows_ how to offer proper support. Bilbo gives him a short, reassuring nod.

“I remember a time,” the former King decides to continue, “when I would have done anything to just be left alone. I _knew_ how to do my job, didn’t I, and yet others - many, many others - felt the need to correct me, every step of the way.”

“How’d you, uh... convince them otherwise?” Dis asks, the potency of her stormy frown diminished somewhat by the spoon still sticking out of her mouth.

“I don’t believe I did,” Thorin says innocently, “until I finally abdicated the throne and ran away to the mountains.”

“Ah yes, the best decision Thorin II ever made,” Bilbo laughs, alongside Dis, although she is still attempting to disguise it as one continuous frustrated groan.

“That’s not very helpful!”

“Oh, my apologies, did you expect a sounder strategy than that?”

“Well, she _did_ decide to come live in the mountains with us, so I’d say a certain escapist streak runs in the family...”

 

And that’s it, really - that’s about all that they can do. Do their very best to make her laugh, and hope she finds whatever she’s come here to look for. They do make their inquiries, separately and together, and it feels rather strange, to be communicating with the Palace in this manner, but it’s all sorted soon - albeit abrupt, the Crown Princess’s absence is all accounted for, and she may stay.

Bilbo thinks there is _something_ he must be missing still - he looks at her, and sees such a likeness of her father, in looks and demeanor both, but what he _fails_ to see, what he thinks he _should be_ seeing, is something, anything beyond the usual issues Fili used to deal with at her age. The fear of stepping up to the enormous responsibilities already weighing down on her, the acute lack of any sort of freedom, the urge to rebel just for the sake of rebelling... All those issues and worries are her entire world, he knows that, he knows to respect it, of course, but still... He thinks he might be getting old, truly. Surely in his prime, so to speak, he would not have had any trouble whatsoever identifying exactly what pains her the most, and offering advice.

He takes her to the garden the very next day. It’s what they used to do when she was just a tiny tot, Bilbo in old jeans and Dis in a dress with a pattern that matched the flower beds surrounding them, and they would make a point of spending an entire afternoon with their hands buried in soil, as he taught her about gardening, and she asked him about bugs and whatnot, and came running with his cane whenever he vastly overplayed the effects his old injury had on his ability to get back up to his feet.

“Are we really doing this?” she arches one eyebrow, looking him up and down, the gloves and tools and all.

“Absolutely yes, we are,” he declares, “a good half of this place needs weeding. Now, are you sure you won’t mourn those pretty trousers? Maybe you should get changed.”

“Maybe you should not be spending your old age _weeding_ anything,” she snaps back, not without a grin. “Don’t you worry about me. Let’s go.”

She used to be nine years old, and could spend hours on end talking about anything and everything, a dozen question a second, and quite frankly, Bilbo is not above a bit of sentiment - he would have half expected her to keep silent all throughout the ordeal, but no, there she is again, his favorite little kid, and even though the topic of her ramblings has changed radically, she still feels the need to share, and he can count himself lucky he’s there to hear it all.

“You’re telling me that little passage is still there? After all this time?”

“Yep, wardrobe to maid room. A bit of a tighter fit these days, but hey, as long as it works.”

“Your Uncle will be _overjoyed_ to hear that, my goodness,” Bilbo laughs, “it took me an _embarrassingly_ long time to discover that, god, I remember. They were heartbroken the day I did, they thought their days of freedom were over, for sure...”

“Well, I salute you for deciding to let them keep it,” Dis grins.

“Are you joking? We had the entire wall replaced,” Bilbo says loudly, and when she squints at him quizzically, he leans in conspiratorially, adding in hushed tones: “Or at least as far as your Grandfather is concerned.”

She bursts into laughter, sitting back on her heels, wiping loose strands of hair away from her face, the back of her hand still succeeding at leaving a smudge of dirt across her forehead. Bilbo looks on her with fondness, until his back announces himself, and he hides a grunt of pain, to some degree of success anyway.

“Maybe it’s time for a break?” she says, “I’m parched.”

“Well, if _you’re_ parched,” Bilbo huffs, accepting the veiled offer for what it is.

“Here, let me help you,” she’s at his side before he can so much as come up with a suitable excuse to dismiss her - he gets back up with her support, and she never lets go of his arm as they slowly walk back towards the house. Darkness approaches quicker these days, and the sky promises a spot of rain again later, but all that Bilbo has eyes for is Dis, really - his granddaughter, not anywhere near the literal definition of the word, but it _is_ what they’ve always called it, it’s what she decided upon one day, barely even able to get the word _Grandpa_ out, but using it with much vigor nonetheless. Today, years and years later, she looks back at the vast garden slowly preparing to welcome dusk, and her soft features betray her real age, past that regal Durin facade - when she turns to Bilbo next, her smile shows itself to be genuine.

 

-

 

There’s nothing for it - they’re getting old. If their reflections in the mirror aren’t enough to prove the inevitable, then being faced with just how unstoppable, hectic, _astonishing_ the children of their children are, how fast they’re growing up, will certainly do the trick. Bilbo is admittedly better at this, always has been - keeping up. For his part, Thorin watches, listens, and attempts his very best not to say anything infuriating, while his grand niece (who would, ironically, disown him if she were to hear him call her anything but granddaughter) proves time and time again that his best diplomatic years are long gone, and just how good the decision to escape from the city to the mountains really was.

She seems to need it, too, long for it, even - the fresh air, the solitude, the quiet. It’s a healing place, this, always has been, and Thorin is more than happy to share it with the rest of the family, when they do decide to turn up, that is. It’s true, they used to come here much more often, all of them, when the children were younger, when Kili wasn’t running off to save very distant parts of the world time and time again...

It all seems so long ago, but the excitement is still there, on all parts - Thorin himself, true to the plans he’s had for his retirement ever since he was absolutely sure they would not be parted again, spends his time watching Bilbo. _We’re going to sit opposite one another in complete peace, you and I, with good books and a supply of tea to last us decades, and that will be enough._

They’re making cupcakes, blueberry if Thorin understands correctly, matching aprons tied around their waists, Bilbo complaining every time he has to fetch yet another ingredient that’s too far for his liking, while Dis dances around him with the kind of ease that only youth allows for, and a harmony remains even in that, their mismatched movements, the way they talk over one another; the way they occupy the space of the kitchen.

“I couldn’t care less what _the oven_ thinks, my dear, I was baking long before these things even _had_ independent thought! How do you set this bugger mechanically, now...”

“No, no, Bilbo, _no._ Let me, ugh, just...”

She is careful around him, perhaps without realizing it, watching his every movement like a hawk, always prepared to spring to his help, no matter how bitter Bilbo might appear about it, no matter how nonchalant Dis herself might act. She is unstoppable by nature, always dashing ahead at the speed of light, consequences be damned, but she appears more... mellow around the two of them, as if she is too painfully aware of what they’ve known in their aching joints for a while now - that time waits for no one.

It’s as if he only looked away for a second, and she turned from a cheerful child to a whole adult person in the blink of an eye, and the blame is entirely on him for not watching closer. But he knows, _knows,_ he hasn’t missed anything, no - she grew up happy, and loved, and _safe,_ Bilbo and him had made sure of that, her father had made sure of that, and they were all there, watching her while it was happening.

 

“Is someone feeling sentimental?”

The mellow colors of the holograph flicker and pause as he turns around to greet Bilbo, who slowly makes his way over to him, assuming his usual place by Thorin’s side, the ancient couch long since molded to let them sit comfortably close.

Thorin doesn’t reply, doesn’t really think he needs to - he simply resumes the loop, and allows himself the luxury of stealing the occasional glance at Bilbo. In the holographic record, Dis is a good decade younger, dancing with her father in her bedroom in preparation for the Gala, perhaps - and even though their routine consists mostly of her standing on the tips of his shoes, she makes sure to order him around more sternly than the strictest dance teacher, correcting his every step and movement. For his part, Fili retains his truly kingly demeanor, although an amused smile is evidently breaking through.

Bilbo’s own face mirrors that, eyes unfocused, as if he’s not only watching the memory unfold in digital form before them, but truly reliving it in his mind at the same time.

“She’s going to be alright,” Thorin decides, his hand finding Bilbo’s, who only acknowledges him a moment later, almost absentmindedly.

“Hmm, yes. I imagine she will. Indeed.”

“Now who’s being sentimental.”

“Oh hush, you.”

“ _Adad, come on! Who taught you how to dance?!_ ” the memory of Dis laments, and Thorin and Bilbo share a smile - yes, she’s going to be alright. Sitting here watching this is proof enough that they ended up succeeding.

“I suppose this is what it was always going to look like, eh?”

“What was going to end up looking like... what?” Thorin attempts to construct a coherent sentence.

“This. Sitting side by side, drinking tea, watching the grandchildren take over,” Bilbo recites uncharacteristically somberly. “That happily ever after we always talked about.”

“Oh,” Thorin recalls, “that. Is it... what was it? _Peaceful and boring_ enough for you?”

The loop ends with Dis losing her balance and Fili catching her in both his arms, scooping her up, much to her somewhat half-hearted displeasure, and Thorin hits pause there, the shimmering picture of the Princess and her father lending the room a warmer glow as the two stand there, forever preserved in laughter.

“Oh yes,” Bilbo chuckles, his hand squeezing Thorin’s. “Peaceful, and boring, and perfect, I dare say.”

 

-

 

She walks in on them dancing. It’s not really the music that wakes her, no, that she only hears after she descends the stairs, but she ends up following it anyway. She doesn’t recognize the tune, something ancient no doubt, a rich, soft voice singing about... oh, a book of love? Alright. She’d half expect it to be late at night, after she dozed off so thoroughly following her less than savory phone call with her father, but no, the dark is only just beginning to set in, and it’s actually the hunger that pulls her out of bed and into the kitchen.

She walks in on them dancing, very, _very_ slowly but no less gracefully, as if they’re all the support the other needs, their gazes firmly interlocked, the very same gentle smile on both their faces, and Dis watches, completely silently, mesmerized, until she reaches for her phone and hits record.

She walks in on them dancing, and in that one last stripe of sunlight pouring into the kitchen, among the golden specks of dust swimming in the air, they are like a mirage - and for a moment, Dis sees the two of them as they once were, nothing but a faded memory that’s not even her own. For a moment, they are young, much younger than she could have ever known them, and strong, standing taller, more spring to their step, and it feels like she traveled back through time, just for the opportunity to witness that for the blink of an eye. She hears the echo of their laughter, imagines her grandfather still strong enough to pick Bilbo up in his arms ever so briefly despite his protests, so small in Thorin’s arms.

They end up noticing her, of course they do, but the spell is never broken - they beckon her to come in, come closer, and the warmth remains as they invite her into their embrace.

“You two aren’t going anywhere, right?” she mumbles into Thorin’s shoulder, ten years old again, and she knows that they know it’s more of a rhetorical question, but the silent second before their reassurances pour in is telling enough.

“We will always be with you,” Bilbo tells her, presses the words into her hair alongside a kiss, and she thinks if she just etches this memory very deep into her mind, the kitchen, the old song, the quiet and the sunset, his words might end up being true.

 

“When did you know?” she asks him later - one more day, one more sunset, and the next one, she’ll be watching from back inside the Palace. Unfortunately, time doesn’t stop after all, despite the impression this place might give. They are sitting side by side on that one oddly placed bench in the heart of the garden, nothing but meticulously trimmed bushes before them, framing a solitary tree stump, cut very low to the ground, polished smooth with age.

“That you wanted to stay here,” she clarifies following his quizzical frown. “There was a video... Miss Kidzulzân showed me. It must have been... 2016, or something, I think? The Gala. And you weren’t in it, because Grandpa and you were keeping your relationship secret at the time, following you returning. From London, I assume. So you did leave, for a while, didn’t you? After the whole Bundushar debacle?”

He watches her humorlessly for some time, not waiting for her to backtrack, no, but rather searching for something... something. It’s slightly unsettling, really.

“I did, yes,” he confesses at last, a heavy sigh. “For a little while, anyway, before your Grandfather came to fetch me right back.”

“He did?” Dis grins.

“Oh, yes, it was all very romantic, I’ll have you know. Knocked on my door, sodding wet from the rain, and all that... Straight out of a movie. Ah well.”

“And that was... You knew then? That was it? You were going to stay in Erebor?”

“I... suppose?” Bilbo scrunches up his nose, just like he always does when he’s mulling over something. “Yes, well. It was hard saying no to that, let me tell you. It’s not every day that a monarch knocks on your door asking you to come away with him, you see. But as for the moment I knew I wanted to spend my life here...”

He seems to have lost his track then, eyes unfocusing, looking ahead at nothing in particular, until his grip on his cane changes, and he turns to Dis with a different sort of smile.

“Do you know what that was?”

“What, the stump? A tree, once upon a time, I imagine?”

“Always with the clever quips, just like your father,” Bilbo grumbles, “yes, it was indeed a tree. Do you know that old oak that grows back at the Palace? You know, the one...”

“The one with its own plaque, the most beautiful tree in the entire park? _Weathering adversities?_ Yeah, I know the one,” Dis laughs.

“Alright, alright. Well, that particular tree was once nothing but a tiny little acorn. And _that_ acorn came from _this_ tree.”

Her eyes follow where he’s pointing with his cane.

“What, the stump? Really?”

“Oh, yes. It used to be a beautiful old oak, this. But then the fire came... Oh, but that’s all long gone, long gone. Where were we? Oh yes. You see, the first time I came here, I believe... Yes, it wasn’t under the most pleasant circumstances. Nasty business that. Drove all night to get here...”

“Bilbo,” she reminds him gently, as she can clearly sense him losing the thread of his story again, “the acorn. The tree?”

“Yes, yes, of course. You see, where I come from... I grew up in a house in Lancashire, back in England. We had a beautiful garden, we did, a large old garden, and right smack in the middle of it grew a lovely old oak. Now, my father always hated that oak, said it was stealing all the sunlight, said it was draining the ground dry, but me, I adored it. It was so good at giving us shade in the summer, you see!

And then, years later, I came here, of course. And the first thing I see when I step foot in this place? A grand old oak, just like the one back home. I suppose it must have been then, that I knew. That I could stay here.”

“Oh,” Dis smiles, past the slightly achy lump in her throat.

“It’s silly, I suppose,” Bilbo postulates, looking _up,_ as if he still remembers where the branches of the long-gone tree stretched and bowed over the lawn. “Finding comfort in a tree. Maybe I was just looking for an excuse, back then. Hah! It wouldn’t do to fall in love with a King, Bilbo Baggins, but an oak, now there’s a reason to stay!”

She laughs alongside him, even though she senses _his_ laughter probably resonates with a different time.

“Well, at least you stayed! That’s all that matters, in the end.”

She’d fully expect him to appear pensive, but he simply offers her a warm smile, and his hand searches for hers, to pat her gently.

“I suppose that’s true.”

The dusk finds them huddling closer, swatting at the occasional insect annoying them, inhaling deep lungfuls of the cooling mountain air. The flowers have long since closed their blooms, and dew is beginning to set on the grass, and even the birdsongs change, calling for rest. Dis covers Bilbo’s hand in both of hers, and lays her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes in the hopes that she might succeed at saving this, all of it, in a more permanent way than any photograph might even achieve.

“Tell me the story again,” she pleads with him.

“What - I just told you it!” Bilbo complains, and Dis laughs.

“No, not that one. The usual one. You know - the acorn. Weathering adversity, and all that.”

“Oh, that one?” she can _hear_ the pout in Bilbo’s voice. “Are you sure? I’ve told it so many times before.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Please?”

“Oh, alright then, if you insist. I believe it goes like this...”

 

-

 

It goes like this: they don’t expect the fire. It comes _after_ all the big decisions have been made, the agreements reached, the papers signed. It comes _after_ they’ve been assured, time and time again, that things will only be better from now on. And they are, in the end they are, but first, there is a fire.

They drive up together, together in _one car_ , that is, a measure so lacking in security that they might as well be undoing the entirety of the preceding months, but they did not consider any other way, not even for a second.

They drive through the countryside almost completely alone, and outside the car windows, the world is spinning on - the fields have been harvested, the pastures mowed, haystack upon circular haystack scattered across them like spilled beads, and there is no sign that any of it will ever change. The mountains still welcome them with narrow winding roads and deep ravines, and until the very last moment, they can fool themselves into thinking that nothing ever happened. But then, of course, they step _out_ of the car, and they see.

 

The air still smells faintly of smoke, but then again, perhaps he'll always smell smoke here from now on. The gentle rain, the very first reminder of the coming autumn, soaks what's left of the sitting room, rubble burnt to a crisp, and he thinks he might recognize what used to be the edge of what might have been a bookcase... Or a table...

His stomach turns, and he averts his gaze, carefully stepping over charred beams and piles that are nothing more than ash, really, and into the garden.

His heart stutters at the sight of the tree trunk fallen right across the lawn, where the meticulously crafted bushes used to grow, almost all of them having fallen victim to the fire. Somebody's calling after him, to be careful, but Bilbo pays them no mind and steps closer, and closer still, to the dead ancient tree, somehow mesmerized by it, its branches pitch black, its leaves turned soft ash.

He catches a speck of light, of a brighter color, out of the corner of his eye, and before he knows it, he's bending down to pick it up, wiping it clean of the soot and dirt - no one is there to see his eyes fill with tears, and besides, the rain becomes too much very soon, and so he shoves his find in his pocket, and hurries back to the cars.

 

"An acorn?"

It leaves traces of dirt in Thorin's palm, open and resting on Bilbo's knee. Behind the windows, a forest speeds by, blurs of trees and rain, as if the weather is making up for the summer, determined to soak that which the fire has destroyed.

"It's not that difficult to grow, actually. We can plant it somewhere nice. To... you know."

"I don't know," Thorin arches an eyebrow.

"New beginnings. Getting through... what we got through. Weathering adversity, that kind of thing."

"Weathering adversity," Thorin smirks.

"Whatever you want to call it. We're doing this."

"If you say so," Thorin smiles, closing his fingers around the acorn and Bilbo's hand both, gazing out of the window, while Bilbo in turn looks at his face. He could wax poetic about the sharpness of his features, or the... adversities, indeed, written in the wrinkles of it, gaining each year, but right here, right now, Bilbo sees him the same way he used to see him, way back when, excitement, and adoration, and opportunities, only just getting to know each other and already breaking rules - young, and brash, and very much in love despite their circumstances.

In a way, he thinks, he always will.

Without really thinking about it, he brings his hand to Thorin's face, cupping his cheek, and when Thorin looks at him, pleased but a tad puzzled, Bilbo sighs with a shrug, and leans in, Thorin's arm around his shoulders.

"I sincerely hope planting trees is the only thing the future has in store for us," Thorin mumbles into Bilbo's hair, and the warmth of him is reassuring, and solid, and the only anchor Bilbo needs.

"Are you sure?" he mutters, "I was kind of hoping to go to the sea one more time, at the very least. Also London, if at all possible, my cousin still says she needs physical proof of me being alive."

"We can arrange that," Bilbo feels him smile, "but no more unnecessary... excitement."

"Agreed," Bilbo laughs, "just a peaceful, boring 'and they lived happily ever after', then?"

Thorin’s hand briefly squeezes his shoulder tighter, and there is a simple sort of joy in his next words.

"I don't know about you, but that doesn't sound boring to me at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here we are at last, at the end of all things. What is there to say, really? This has been so long in the making, and yet it feels surreal. As you could probably tell, I do have an entire storyline in my head for all the years we didn't cover, but I wrote this purposefully vague. It was meant to be a goodbye, not another 300k behemoth, even though I was only a handful of bad decisions away from that at any given moment :'D This humble little epilogue reminds me that I AM capable of finishing things, and yes, it IS a definitive end.  
> There will never not be a day when the universe, its people, that particular iteration of Thorin and Bilbo and everyone else, aren't with me, aren't offering me new points of view, new crumbs of stories, but it feels good, feels right, to send them off this way. I leave it up to you to connect the dots - anything that you might come up with to fill in the blanks of the storyline in the decades between Bilbo picking up that acorn, and Dis II hearing the story of it, is probably right, in one way or another. Dis was a wonderful character to work with, and she is now very much alive in my head more than anyone, and very cross with me for only letting her say so little.  
> I want to thank all of you, those of you who never hesitated to let me know what the series meant to them throughout the years, those of you who only watched/read from the sidelines, every single person who appreciated this story and made it possible. I learned so much working on it way back when, and coming back to it to offer a last handful of words was a lovely experience.  
> Please do let me know what you thought, and thank you, thank you all again <3  
> (Shoutout to Maggie, who couldn't carry it for me, but carried me in those last crucial moments; and to Thea, who weathered the brunt of my theories and shoddy story building throughout the years; and to every single fantastic artist who graced this universe with their work; and to all of you who took their time to let me know that you'd just stayed up four nights in a row against your better judgement to reread the whole thing. I couldn't have done it without you, any of you.)


End file.
